by Neil Randall
“But, Mr Barrowman, this lady was in intensive care for nearly three weeks, she’s broken several vertebrae, a leg, an ankle, she may never walk again. Whatever her past, she was struck by a speeding car that you may or may not have been driving. So why not admit to being behind the wheel? The fact you’ve been involved in a stressful murder investigation will no doubt be a mitigating factor in your defence.”
“But that’s not how it happened.”
But Kendrick and Watson seemed determined to get me to admit to something I hadn’t done, telling me how bad it would appear in court if I tried to shift the blame onto Bannister, a recently deceased hero. In the end, in desperation, after what must’ve have been two or three hours of questioning, I told them that I wanted to see my legal representative.
“I can’t lie to you.” Price paced up and down the interview room. “Things don’t look very promising.”
What he reeled off next, I could barely keep up with: witness statements, positive identification, irrefutable claims, an attempted murder charge, my past medical records, erratic behaviour, and potential incarceration at a mental facility.
Only when he said, “It could, however, take three years before your case is up for official review,” did I realise the full seriousness of my situation.
“Three years!”
In all, I spent two additional nights in custody, sleeping in the same ugly holding cell as before, and endured hours of additional questioning before I was moved to a high security psychiatric unit. Once in a grim, sparsely furnished private room, my empty future opened up before me. It felt as if I’d come full circle, back to when I started to have mental health problems as a teenager.
The night before the interim hearing, which I was told I wouldn’t have to attend in person, I was awoken by a soft rustling sound. As I hauled myself up into a sitting position, I saw that someone had slid a large envelope under the door. Looking right and left, for what or whom I couldn’t have said – the room was empty – I crept out of bed, picked up the letter, and went and sat at the desk in the far corner of the room. From the light that came from the window, product of a quite staggeringly bright full moon, I saw that the envelope had been marked for my attention. F.A.O. Nigel Barrowman read the top line of the label, printed in an elegant font: Cambria, I think. Carefully, I unsealed the envelope and pulled out the contents, a photograph, enlarged, of someone’s wrist, a tattoo of a horned owl scraped across the skin. I gasped, nearly toppled out of the chair, because the wrist clearly belonged to Michelle. There was a distinctive brown birthmark and a freckle near the base of the owl, something impossible to superimpose or photo-shop to anywhere close to this degree.
I turned the envelope over. YOU WILL DIE A HORRIBLE DEATH had been printed on the back in neat capital letters.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
On waking, I didn’t know where I was; I didn’t know what was happening. Overnight the room had changed completely. Now it resembled a strange amalgamation of the holding cell in Ilford, and my bedroom at the flat. And by that I mean, the furniture: my old bedside table, computer desk and chair, the radio alarm, the pictures on the walls had all miraculously appeared. It was as if someone had crept in during the early hours and installed a few things from my former life, just to make me feel more at home — but I knew that was patently ridiculous. Pushing the covers aside, I got out of bed and walked around, picking up objects which were undoubtedly my own personal possessions — a snow globe (a gift from Michelle), a gold-plated fountain pen (first prize in a junior school spelling competition), a pinewood bookcase crammed with my most beloved novels and biographies — things I hadn’t seen in weeks.
Laid out on the desk, beside an artist’s pencil, was a charcoal sketch of a horned owl, in such a way as to suggest that whoever had drawn the picture had done so recently. Leaning over, I scrutinised the initials in the bottom corner: NB.
“What?”
Disturbed, dumbfounded, I sat on the edge of the bed, muttering under my breath, wringing my hands, trying to work out what had happened, trying to go back over events in my mind. The last thing I remembered was the photograph of the horned owl tattoo, Michelle’s wrist, and the unmistakable birthmarks. Then…then nothing.
Only when the radio alarm crackled into life did I get to my feet, walk, almost like an automaton, over to the sink, splash some cold water onto my face, and begin to dress.
Ten to fifteen minutes later, two knocks sounded against the door.
“Are you decent, Nige?”
I didn’t answer.
Regardless, a key scraped around the lock, the deadbolt lowered, the door opened, and in walked Michael, a leather attaché case wedged under his arm. “Sorry I’m a little late, got caught in the most atrocious traffic jam.”
“What – What are you doing here?”
He chuckled and gave me one of those light, facetious looks, as if I’d just made a reasonably amusing joke.
“Big day today, Nige.” He pulled out the chair, turned it around, and was about to sit down, but stopped halfway, leaned over the desk and picked up the picture of the horned owl. He looked across at me. “Another owl picture? Do you think that’s really wise?”
“How do you mean?” I asked, confused, flustered, not quite believing what was happening, what it all meant. All I knew was that his words made me feel defensive, so I blurted out: “I didn’t do it. Someone shoved it under the door last night.”
Slowly, carefully, he put the picture back on the desk, stood, straightened and looked at me very seriously, more seriously than I can ever remember him looking at me before.
“Nigel, listen, today some very important people are going to make some big decisions regarding your future.”
“What? Another appraisal, you mean?”
“Yeah, an appraisal, if that’s the way you want to look at it.” He came closer and patted my shoulder. “After everything that’s happened these last few weeks, all the trouble with the police, everything you’ve been through, I don’t want to get your hopes up. Things might not go our way. Worst case scenario: you could be back here permanently, with no hope of another flat in a secure housing unit, a job placement, no hope of getting back into society, for at least the next three years.”
“Three years,” I repeated, remembering my solicitor’s warning.
Michael checked his watch.
“Right, we’ve got five minutes to go through a few things.” He sat down on the chair and gestured for me to do likewise, on the edge of the bed. “So you feel better now, yeah? Now you’re back on your normal medication?”
I hesitated before saying, “Erm, yes,” even though I had no idea what he was talking about. “I – I think so. Although I didn’t realise I’d had any change to my usual prescription.”
“And you haven’t – not really. Only you keep forgetting to take it, don’t you? So Doctor Forbes-Powers has upped the dosage, just until you’re back on an even keel.”
“Doctor Forbes-Powers? But—”
“That’s right,” Michael talked over me. “Now, in all, there’s going to be five people on the panel. You’re going to have to sit in front of them and answer all their questions, okay? In all likelihood, they’ll try and ascertain your state of mind, whether or not you still present a danger to yourself. In all likelihood, the questions will be harsh, pointed, regarding your medication, the way you see yourself in the world, and how you interact with others, especially women.”
“Wait,” I said, almost shouted, in fact. “Who are you?”
“I’m your court-appointed psychiatric evaluator, Nige, but we don’t look at things like that, do we? We’re a team.” He stood up and checked his watch again. “Come on, let’s go. And remember to speak clearly at all times, don’t lose your temper, try not dredge up the past – the future is what we’re concerned about now, right?” He looked at me very seriously again. “And most importantly of all, at no point are you to mention the horned owl. Okay?”
I nodded and followed him out of the room.
But once we were in the corridor, I again had no idea where I was – or, more correctly, I did know where I was; only things didn’t look quite the same. This corridor was like the corridor outside my office at the council building, but it led off into a room I’d never seen before. But, again, that wasn’t strictly true, because this room – open-plan, a dozen or so plastic-backed chairs set out in a horseshoe formation, behind them two sofas, a coffee table – looked exactly like the room Doctor Rabie used for his counselling sessions.
“Hang on.” I tugged at Michael’s jacket. “Where are we going?”
He turned around. “I told you, to the, erm…appraisal, to talk about the future.”
“Oh, right, yes, of course.” I followed after him again. It was then I saw Liz, sitting on one of the sofas, alone, head lowered, as if she’d dozed off to sleep. And I felt such a joyous rush of emotion, I couldn’t control myself.
“Liz! Liz!” I broke away from Michael, waving my arms in the air.
“Nigel! No!” He tried to grab me, but I slipped out of his grasp and rushed over to Liz. Only she didn’t respond at all, she didn’t even lift her head. It was as she was heavily sedated, as if she wasn’t really there.
“Liz!” I knelt and took hold of her hands, which were warm and clammy to the touch. I looked up into her face, but her eyes were closed, as if she really was sleeping. To try and wake her, I shook and prodded her, hoping she’d open her eyes and speak to me. “Liz! I thought you were dead. I thought I’d never see you again.”
The impact of this strangely stunted reunion was too much for me to take. I broke down in tears, burying my face in her lifeless lap.
“Come on, Nigel,” said Michael. “We haven’t got time for this.”
As he pulled me to my feet, I caught a glimpse of a plastic box with an owl design on the lid. It was on the table, half open, only inside wasn’t any velvet lining or shiny dagger but crayons, the colourful kind children used to draw with.
“Liz!” I shouted, almost beside myself. “Liz! It’s me. Wake up. We can be together forever.”
“Nigel, please! That isn’t Liz, but your friend, Michelle. She suffers from a rare brain condition, remember? She can’t talk like the rest of us. When you were here previously, you used to read to her, tell her stories, talk to her, sometimes you even made her smile.”
By this time, I was almost hysterical, so much so, Michael had to slap me around the face. The jolt of which went some way to returning me to the here and now.
As I took the deep breaths Michael advised me to take, a smartly dressed young woman wearing a pair of tortoiseshell glasses crept into my peripheral vision.
“Is he all right?” she said to Michael.
Blinking away the tears, I turned and stared at her. And I had to do a complete double take – it was Helen King, only the name-tag fastened to her blouse didn’t say Helen King but Liz Green.
“Yeah, yeah, he’ll be fine. Nerves, I guess.” He turned back to me. “Calm down, hey, Nige? You don’t want to go up in front of the panel all flustered and emotional now, do you?”
“But, Liz, she’s…Michelle…but you’re called…”
Liz/Helen gave my forearm a reassuring squeeze.
“You’re all confused, Nigel. Try and focus, clear your head. You were making such good progress before. Don’t let it all go to waste, eh?”
“Come on, Nige,” said Michael, slipping his arm through mine. “Let’s go and speak to the board.”
“No, no,” I mumbled, trying to shake myself out of this delusion, this nightmare. “I’m not required to attend. My solicitor told me that before I was transferred here.”
“Of course you’re expected to attend,” Michael leaned close and whispered. “In half-hour or so, it will all be over, everything will be decided.”
We walked along the corridor, stopping outside a wooden door with a slim glass panel. Nigel knocked twice and we went inside.
The room was so brightly-lit I had difficulty focusing. Initially, therefore, all I could really make out was a long table, sat behind it, a mishmash of blurred human faces, suits, ties, a water jug, and stacks of files.
“Oh good,” said a male voice I yet again recognised. “You’re here. Please, Mr Oliver, Mr Barrowman, take a seat.”
As Michael directed me to a chair, right in front of the panel, my vision finally levelled out, adjusted, and I could clearly make out everyone sitting before me. From right to left, each had a nameplate in front of them: Jeffrey Fuller, John Mackintosh, Julian Price, Gideon Forbes-Powers and Graham Bannister. But none of the faces staring back at me corresponded to the names on the nameplates – Jeffrey Fuller was Detective Inspector Watson, John Mackintosh was Gideon Forbes-Powers (the empty sleeve pinned to his lapel, where his left arm should have been only confirmed this), Julian Price was John Mackintosh, Gideon-Forbes-Powers was Detective Kendrick, and Graham Bannister was Doctor Rabie.
“Thank you for coming today,” said Mackintosh. “If everyone is in agreement, I think we should progress straight to the heart of the matter.” He turned the page of a thick file. Each member of the panel did likewise. “You know why you’re here, don’t you, Mr Barrowman?”
“Yes,” I heard myself say.
“Two months ago, you sat before us in very different circumstances. You had responded well to all facets of your treatment. Twice-weekly, you had been travelling, on your own, to the council offices in Ilford, on an employment placement programme. Such was the quality of your work, the esteem in which you were held by your colleagues, the personnel section was more than happy to offer you full-time employment on a probationary basis. When secure housing informed us that a self-contained flat had become available, walking distance from your potential place of new employ, we decided it was time for you to try and reenter society.” He looked up from the file. “You were getting on so well. What went wrong?”
All the time he was talking, I tried to follow the chronological chain of events – but I couldn’t, because I had a completely different memory of each metaphorical link.
“But – But I’d been working for the council for eight years.”
This seemed to disturb the members of the panel. They each shifted position slightly and shared what I took for doubtful, concerned glances out of the corner of their eyes.
“No, no, Mr Barrowman,” said Graham Bannister, “you’ve been in the mental health care system for eight years, ever since your breakdown. Don’t you remember?”
To have said I didn’t remember (which I didn’t) was clearly the worst thing I could’ve said, like a confession, an acknowledgement of my inability to think straight, to function.
“Well, yes, of course….” I trailed off, hoping that would be enough to satisfy them.
“Eight years ago,” said Julian Price, “you and your long-term partner, Riordan, decided to go your separate ways. You didn’t take this very well at all. In the months following the end of the relationship, you rarely left your flat, you composed a lot of malicious letters, you dropped out of society altogether, you lost your job, you stopped eating, you drank heavily, took drugs, and, for the want of a better expression, engaged the services of many sex workers, both male and female, you started to self-harm. All of which culminated in a suicide attempt.” He took a sip of water. “When you were eventually sectioned under the Mental Health Act, you were sent here for evaluation.”
He turned and nodded to Doctor Rabie.
“When you first came under my care, Mr Barrowman,” he said, “you had difficulty distinguishing between what was real and what was not – you were delusional. You claimed that you had been abused as a child, and that the abusers were Members of Parliament, the Establishment, High Court judges. You claimed that your life was at risk, that the shadow of death hung over you, that you were being pursued by a horned owl. To stabilise your mood, we put you on some anti-psychotic medication – which did indeed provide some essential bal
last, as it were.
“However, the mental trauma you suffered in the months following the breakdown of your relationship proved deep-rooted. Moreover, the guilt you felt over your questionable sexual dalliances during this period affected you profoundly. Put simply: you didn’t respond to conventional treatments.”
“That’s where I came in,” said Gideon Forbes-Powers. “We decided to take a more holistic approach, encouraging you to take part in a creative writing programme. With something to focus your mind on, a disciplined routine, getting up each morning to write, you slowly began to regain your mental equilibrium.” He too paused for a sip of water. “That the story you wrote had a strong homo-erotic theme only underpinned this, because it showed that you were exorcizing your demons, channelling all that negative energy, salving your guilt through the written word.”
“The Magister’s Analects, you mean?”
“That’s correct,” he said. “A powerful piece of writing, where you confront issues of social isolation, a person’s need for warmth and intimacy in life. Granted, you suffered many set-backs along the way. You became quiet and withdrawn. But, eventually, when you’d gone through the whole process, we felt you were ready to move on to the next level.”
Mackintosh was next to speak.
“Now, Mr Barrowman, I must repeat my earlier question: what, in your opinion, what, to the best of your knowledge, went wrong?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Not that I would have been able to provide one, so dizzied and disturbed had I been by everything I’d just heard. “Firstly, we had the incident with the woman in the supermarket, the elderly lady you allegedly pushed to the floor, then accosted at a bus-stop. Giving you the benefit of the doubt, and having Doctor Bannister call round to the secure housing unit to question you, we decided to let you continue with your work duties and everyday life, on the condition that you call in to see Doctor Price at his Stratford clinic, once a fortnight.
